I knew whose hand it was. “I beg you, forgive me, in Allah’s name,” I pleaded. Uncle Usama’s wide palm came down across my face, the force of the blow nearly capsizing me. “Shut up, you bastard child,” he shouted. With squinting, teary eyes, I watched the two friends I was with flee the scene, merging into the throng of cinemagoers. Uncle’s long fingers gripped my neck again, creating a noose of flesh and bone.
“In Allah’s name, I beg for your pardon. I won’t do this again,” I managed to say amid dry sobs. I felt a throbbing pain in my head, and my legs began to buckle under the weight of his hand pressing down on my neck. Uncle must have noticed this; he released my neck and quickly grabbed my elbow, yanking me alongside him. I labored to keep up with his long strides, but kept falling behind and stepping on the back of his flip-flops. He gave me a slap each time this happened, then continued to drag me forcefully, the way goat sellers dragged their animals on the dirt roads of the city.
“Papa, please beg him for me. Please, Papa, beg him for me!” I directed desperate pleas at passersby, hoping they would come to my rescue, but the pedestrians only stared curiously at us before rushing on. Uncle’s massive build was enough to deter anyone who thought of intervening on my behalf. For some of the onlookers, especially the fruit hawkers and food venders who lined the front side of the Rex Cinema, this wasn’t the first time they had witnessed a helpless child being dragged by Uncle Usama, who was, in fact, the official disciplinarian of Zongo Street.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة April 01, 2024 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك ? تسجيل الدخول
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة April 01, 2024 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
GET IT TOGETHER
In the beginning was the mob, and the mob was bad. In Gibbon’s 1776 “Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,” the Roman mob makes regular appearances, usually at the instigation of a demagogue, loudly demanding to be placated with free food and entertainment (“bread and circuses”), and, though they don’t get to rule, they sometimes get to choose who will.
GAINING CONTROL
The frenemies who fought to bring contraception to this country.
REBELS WITH A CAUSE
In the new FX/Hulu series “Say Nothing,” life as an armed revolutionary during the Troubles has—at least at first—an air of glamour.
AGAINST THE CURRENT
\"Give Me Carmelita Tropicana!,\" at Soho Rep, and \"Gatz,\" at the Public.
METAMORPHOSIS
The director Marielle Heller explores the feral side of child rearing.
THE BIG SPIN
A district attorney's office investigates how its prosecutors picked death-penalty juries.
THIS ELECTION JUST PROVES WHAT I ALREADY BELIEVED
I hate to say I told you so, but here we are. Kamala Harris’s loss will go down in history as a catastrophe that could have easily been avoided if more people had thought whatever I happen to think.
HOLD YOUR TONGUE
Can the world's most populous country protect its languages?
A LONG WAY HOME
Ordinarily, I hate staying at someone's house, but when Hugh and I visited his friend Mary in Maine we had no other choice.
YULE RULES
“Christmas Eve in Miller’s Point.”